No one moves to Toronto
to find something new.
You land here fallow
to touch old shores, to get into
rubble, to find the missing clue.
The ‘Good,’ this city, the abettor
where callous got its name
on the knees of the polite beggar,
we watch silent and ashamed,
this city, we come to lay our pain.
Perhaps there is nothing wrong with Toronto
nothing short of same —
same wishes, same stars, same empty hollow
— no where to defiantly exclaim,
“This! Is! Me! Broken and aflame.”
And I am here, still searching
for answers in tepid waves.
There’s a virtue in observing
what emerges, transforms, decays
from within these gilded graves.
May I find myself a merry mourner
to remind me: life is waiting here
just around the corner,
on your knees, and in your stare
take it by the hand, be aware
trees ever curl, kiss, and howl
whether orange, green, or gray
this great unknown bares no scowl
against all odds, you’ll find your way —
this whole time, we were asking you to stay.